


Home is a Fire

by maevestrom



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Budding Love, Burning, Cabin Fic, Character Death, Depression, Destinations, F/F, Falchion, Family, Fire, Home, Homemaking, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safety, Slow Build, Tea, Trauma, bracelet, furnace - Freeform, goal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-23 14:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevestrom/pseuds/maevestrom
Summary: Lucina fights through the throes of depression and trauma from the war in order to make something of herself now that one of her friends from the war is here, far too close for comfort.Edited 6/17/2018!





	1. The First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina copes with a new event in her life

The nightmares were generally the best you could hope for. 

Not that you exactly  _ desire  _ any part of it, but at least the nightmares are universal. You can explain those- if you could explain any of it. 

When no one’s around, though, you can’t explain it away, so when you have them, there’s nothing you can do.

As you wake, pinned down to your mattress as your dream breaks, you blink away the too-vivid visions that feel less like projections and more like predictions, a prophecy from a less-than-divine voice that is so silent and well-mannered (most of the time) to the surface yet screaming out paranoia under what is audible. 

Under your breath, you mutter to yourself that what you saw  _ won’t come to pass, it won’t come to pass, it won’t come to pass,  _ so much that you can hear yourself insisting to yourself that your dream won’t come to pass. The more you chant, the more forceful you are, as if you stopped insisting that you shouldn’t worry and started getting angry that you even let yourself think of the possibility that you should. 

You stop repeating that  _ it won’t come to pass  _ and lean up before the words lose all meaning. 

\---

You aren’t sure- nor have you ever been sure- why exactly you still dress up in full lordlike swordfighting regalia. The war in Ylisse has been over for years now- your present self is likely running around the castle, hassling her parents from their exalt duties, if your earliest formed memories hold true here as well. Aside from the occasional bandit and raccoon, no one has given your meager home much comparison- at this point even the bandits must realize there’s no point to pilfer the place. 

Still, you suit up. Leather tunic, straps, knee-high boots, and cape are all adorned as you face a mirror. Strangely, about a few weeks of only basic hygiene does not help your appearance fit the regality of your uniform. Your face is pale, your hair is strewn and strawlike, and the nails on the hand that instinctively reaches for a sword you’ve stopped carrying are uneven and need trimming. 

You try not to let yourself think that you may as well be of the future. 

\---

You’ve exited your chambers and stepped into the main room when you remember. 

Or, to be more precise, you trip over her. 

She doesn’t budge even as you nearly fall over, catching your hands on a nearby chair to prop yourself up. You stop short of yelping, and as you settle, confirm your safety. You push up on the seat cushion to your feet, still unsure you’re on solid ground as you turn around to face her. 

She’s wide awake, looking at you as you collapse in the chair with more exhaustion than someone who just woke up should have. She looks as unkempt as you feel- her fur is matted and overgrown, her ears lazily flop around the halfhearted attempt at clothes- a plain tan tunic and set of black trousers- you know she only wears for your sake. Everything about her presence feels as though she has let effort flow away in the breeze- and she was not known for effort in the first place. 

Her natural self works just fine, you muse. 

You nod at her. “Good morning, Lady Panne.”

Panne nods back but says nothing, staying curled in a ball on the floor.  _ Gods, how can she stand it,  _ you wonder. The floor is made of wood as one would expect a cabin to be. You aren’t even sure if you had the chance to scrape for splinters before she came to visit, much less prepare a comfortable den for her to rest in, and yet she seems so comfortable, so magnetized to it, that she could stay there all day, much like yourself to your bed. 

You should get up and make some morning tea, but the chair you’re in is comfortable, so you stay, eyes drifting to where she lies. Her visit is possibly the most…  _ anything  _ that’s gone on in ages. You’ve lived in this cabin at the northwestern end of Regna Ferox since the war ended, to avoid further conflicting the lives of your parents as they raised your younger self. Gods, they had so much of their moral character tested through the war. You can’t even fathom interjecting after all they’ve already done fo-

“Is there a reason you’re staring at me?”

You blink out of your thoughts, angry at yourself for such impropriety. “Apologies, Lady Panne,” you reply so quickly that you forget that you do. Still, that serves as enough for her, as she buries her head in her lap again, where it rests on her messy tunic. Her eyes close, and you aren’t sure if she’s asleep or not, but aren’t about to investigate. You just fear your thoughts will fall into the war again- and to whether or not your parents’ trauma will surpass your own.

You can’t stand thinking about it so you force your mind to shut down. When you awaken, Panne is up and the sun is at its peak. 

\---

Panne is simple to cook for- to the point where it matters not that you give a middling effort at it. All you have to do is make carrot stew, and she’s satisfied- or at the very least, she’s said nothing yet about the monotony. You consider making yourself a meal of your own but simply dip a ladleful of stew into a bowl of your own. She lets the stew cool down, then picks up the pot you cooked it in and starts to dig in. She knows you don’t mind. You never minded. 

You take a seat back in your chair, careful with your bowl. She looks up at you from the floor and says “another serviceable job”, nodding her thanks. You smile at her and say nothing, because she wouldn’t expect you to. At this point, you would look the fool for applying pleasantries. 

The two of you continue to eat quietly. You nibble at the vegetables in your stew in order to tell yourself that you exert some effort into eating, and she ravenously gulps down her portion like water. She doesn’t apologize, and you don’t expect her to. 

For such a straightforward person, you find it odd- as would she- to admire her so, yet as she messily digs into her soup, admiration is what burns in your heart. As soon as you met her, you admired her- the last of her kind, yet so stern and dedicated. Others would consider her impersonal, and like you she had not married into the Shepherds like so many had, but you knew that as much as she admired the distance, you only held it out of respect. 

She burps, and you wonder if you’re making a more solemn deal out of it than is warranted.

When you know she’s taking time between her gulps, you ask “how long was it that you expected to stay?” 

She shrugs in a distant, defensive, instinctively Panne way, but she minds herself not to speak coldly around you. “I had hoped to make this a stop on my own journeys. I admit I did not schedule out how long I expected to stay.” Then, before you can reply, “If you would like me to leave, I will gladly.”

You shake your head. “It’s no trouble,” you insist. For as desperate as you surely look, you could be utilizing her company more. Still, it comforts you to hear someone else exist near you, their presence something you can feel in all four corners of your humble home. 

She nods brusquely and takes another graceless bite of stew. 

You smile despite yourself and take a bite- a real one, consuming food, nutrients, and everything. It’s what you imagine normal feels like, but as the night goes on it feels like a shallow imitation.   
  



	2. The Second Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina hates pity, because it reminds her of how pitiful she feels

You awake screaming again, and this time it’s not a dream, and it doesn’t go away. 

You throw your pillow aside and desperately reach for where your sword is. You can’t find it- do they have it? Oh gods, pray it isn’t the case! 

You all but leap into your closet, moving boxes out of the way at a reckless pace to get to it. You’re not even sure if they’re landing right side up, you just have to get to it. You just  _ have  _ to. It never should have been stored away, treated like a forgotten memento. It doesn’t deserve that. Oh, gods, is  _ that  _ why everything is happening, because you’ve disgraced the gifts that Naga gave y-

“Explain yourself.”

Suddenly everything stops. Your feet are on ground, and there’s a hand on your shoulder. You slowly look around, hesitant, fearful, of what you expect and what you dread- and of how the two are interchangeable. 

She’s looking at you with an expression that’s working hard to avoid betraying emotion, but not hard enough. She’s trying to be cold, but she hasn’t been good at that in years. When you first met her in the Shepherds, she was better. She looked as unapproachable as she wanted to be. Now, after everything she’s been through, she can’t keep up the facade- and she gives you that look. 

Pity. 

You were familiar with that look when you returned to the past. From your father after you cried in his arms, from your mother when you were wracked with guilt at the possibility of killing her to undo the wretched future, from your brother as you realized you knew nothing about each other, from the other Shepherds for far too long, from even your friends from the past for reasons you try to avoid acknowledging. Then there’s Panne, the only one who looks at you with the sort of pity that identifies with yours. The only one who looks at you with the knowledge that something was lost in the years.

You feel bonded in that way, and resentful that you are again below her station.

You sigh, and break eye contact from Panne, looking at your bed. “I apologize for waking you, Lady Panne.” That’s only the half of it, but you leave the other half unsaid. 

She simply nods and removes her hand from your shoulder. Now that it’s gone, you can barely stand. It’s as though she took your life force with it. 

“Sleep well,” she says bitterly, walking away with every step a thud slapping against the wooden floor. You see her shadow leave, her fist gripped around something round that casts the only light in the distance that it fades to. 

A beaststone.

_ Oh, gods, Panne.  _

You fall to your knees, facing your bed. The slight glow of Falchion emanates from the closet, the only light in your room that the moon doesn’t cast. You slowly crawl over to it, lift it up, and stare into the gap in its center. It doesn’t deserve this. It doesn’t deserve to be forgotten. But if you had the opportunity to never use it again, you would take it. 

You just don’t have faith that the opportunity will arise. 

It was the most foolish decision your father ever made- to attack Grima with his exalted Falchion and spare your mother from sacrificing herself- but selfishly, you cannot thank him enough for it. You can't imagine a life without mother, glad even to know she exists from here thousands of miles away- and what little you know about Morgan tells you he couldn’t either. 

But Grima is still alive. The Fell Dragon that terrorized you, your friends and loved ones, all of the Shepherds, is still alive, and though he was prophesied to sleep for a thousand years, you wake up fearing that a thousand will turn into a hundred, ten, one,  _ now. _

You set Falchion next to your bed and lie down to rest. You wake up with tear stains on your face and nightclothes and a firm grip on the sword’s handle, but at least that’s all you wake up to. 

\---

You work outside in the closest thing to plainclothes you have. You wield an axe to chop logs in half for the fire, and don’t notice how your senses have been dulled over time. You miss few chops, but you should miss  _ none,  _ and you know the only reason you don’t miss more is because of the frequent need of fire. Fire is not sated. It demands to be fed. Chopping logs is just routine. You’ve felled a tree, and severed it into logs and later chunks via a saw. Now is the last step in the process.

You hear Panne’s footsteps before you see her and don’t react. She stands alone, not doing anything, but you feel her eyes on your shoulders as you cut. You feel a pressure to perform, and chop the next few log pieces as swiftly as you can. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. You make a game out of it, trying to get as many done as you can in a minute’s time. Strangely, you notice, her gaze has not adjusted, changed in intensity, or halted for a mo-

You realize your latest chop did not divide the piece directly into half. 

You go to chop again, swearing under your breath. Immediately, you’re ashamed of yourself, but you notice her chuckle lowly, in a way that’s halfway between demeaning and interested. You furrow your brow and try not to pout as you finish the log and set the axe aside. 

That’s enough kindling for the day. 

As you finish, Panne reaches for a few and starts to stack an armful out of it. You want to tell her not to, but you know her well enough that- even as thick as you are- you wouldn’t dare suggest that and make her upset. There’s little you hate more than letting someone down. 

Too bad, then, that you could not cleanly chop that log. 

“Thank you,” is all you say as you follow her, a few in your arms as well. 

“It’s the least I can do,” she replies as you approach the entrance of the cabin. “Especially after showing up so suddenly.”

“It’s no trouble,” you insist. “In truth, I like having visitors.” Immediately, you know that’s a lie as of late, but perhaps you meant that you  _ miss  _ having visitors. 

Or that a visitor is fine, because it is her. 

She hmms again in a way that doesn’t pursue things further but communicates clearly that she knows you aren’t telling the truth. 

You take thought away from the subject. “Remind me again what brings you to Regna Ferox?”

“You never asked,” she reminds you. Before you can reflexively apologize, she adds “but it matters not. In truth, I do not have a solid plan…” she gestures with her head towards the stagnant northern forest you call home, resignation in her eyes “...up here, but I hope that I find a home.” 

You nod. “That is my hope for you as well.” You start to smile until you think of where you are and scowl.  _ More of a home than this is here.  _

She hums again, but it’s effortless. You step into the main room where she lets all the logs fall without a care in the world. You gasp at the thud of wood against wood, but she kneels down to place them in the rack next to the furnace, as if nothing startling happened at all. You wait for her to finish so you can place yours directly in the rack. 

To make conversation, you ask “what sort of home are you looking for?” 

She hmms again. “I imagine I must sound like I am singing the same song on this, but…” she places two more chunks in the rack and shrugs, and you can tell she's trying to avoid the whole story. “The kind of home I find isn’t important. The whereabouts are circumstantial too. I suppose if a place feels right… then it will be right.” 

You're not sure if you believe her. Something feels missing. Not the desiring a home part- from the second you got to know Panne, she didn’t need to say how important a home was for her. Her warren was erased from the map, and Taguels from history books, in one fell swoop. Though she could deny it, you knew she craved it- or at the very least, felt she deserved it.

You’ve always why she’s working on that desire again, and close your eyes so she doesn’t read the remorseful expression. Maybe this is what pity feels like. 

No wonder you hate it so.

You stubbornly shake any antagonistic thoughts out of your head to the point where you nearly pass out. She finally notices you with the logs shaking in your arms, as you try to deny their weight despite stumbling slightly. She sweeps the remaining logs out of your path to the rack, and you nod your thanks as you start to walk towards it. 

“Animal instinct, I suppose.”

You think of her being content, and you smile.

\---

You don’t notice the boxes until you go to retire in your bed chambers. 

The only reason you almost notice in the first place is because you trip over one. 

As tired as you are, you still manage to keep on your feet. Gods, all your tripping… is this what Cynthia feels like? Though you suppose after the first hundred it stops bothering her. You smile as you think of her and whatever jubilant adventures she and Owain are on (because you know they can’t possibly be at any home). You think of how she never stopped smiling even when there were times you wished she would, as you wondered how she could be so happy in times like you were, how she kept the faith… 

Then there’s Brady, who absolutely  _ has to be _ a homebody. You smile thinking of his symphonies, imagining them so vividly that you could dance to the sounds you hear. So shameless, so emotionally open, so much like him… so unlike you. 

The symphony stops in your mind and you fall into a world devoid of music once more. 

All you can hear are the sounds of Panne’s breath, deep and rhythmic in the distant background. Were it not silent otherwise, you would have to strain to hear it. You’re not alone, and that means more than even you know. 

It’s a strange sort of comfort. 

You move the boxes aside and let them stay in their corners, haphazard, gathering the dust. You forget them and the parts of your life they may contain once more. 


	3. The Third Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina drinks tea and tries to get more comfortable with her surroundings

The fire is roaring the next morning, and you haven’t even dressed from your smallclothes so you feel its warmth too closely. Of course, with you being your modest, easily embarrassed self, your smallclothes cover from your collarbone down to your knees, and _gods above,_ you live alone for most days of the year; you needn't be so chaste. 

You tell yourself that the chill of Regna Ferox is why you cover up so much even in your smallclothes, but it is not making you feel less generic.

You feel a small clink on the arm of the chair you sit in. You look up to see a cup of tea resting on it. You smile and take it into your hands. It’s scorching, but you’re unbothered. “Thank you, Lady Panne.”

Panne snorts before settling on the floor and preparing to take a sip. “Think nothing of it,” she says, if only for your benefit. You were always a thick one, taking any silence as grounds to overthink. “But consider getting a new kettle soon. It’s starting to rust.” With that, she drinks. 

You take another sip, appreciating the bitter tang. You believe this is some sort of hibiscus tea- one that’s been in your pantry for too long- but you can’t be sure. It’s whatever the traders in town had, and you hardly questioned it. Maribelle would be repulsed by your lack of discernation, but at this point you honestly couldn’t give a toss. 

You push those thoughts in the back of your head and instead bring your focus on Panne sitting cross-legged on the floor, and the way she slurps at the tea out of spite, never being fond of the taste. 

“Oh!” you think suddenly. “I really should buy a second chair.”

Panne snorts. “Not for my sake, I should hope.” 

You are hesitant to nod. “I did not intend to house you on my floor for these days,” you explain. 

She takes another hateful sip of tea. “The floor is fine.”

You nod, but struggle to believe her. “At the very least,” you say, “extra seating would be useful should I ever house more visitors.”

“You strike me as having a full docket,” she replies with a smirk. It’s light enough for you to know it to be the acerbic humor she’s known for, but you still blush, angry, hurt, and probably failing to hide it.

You set your tea down, closing your eyes and raising your hand to your head. “I still found time within my busy schedule for you, did I not?” 

She hums in satisfaction, as though she left a slack rope for you to pull on and you did. “An audience with the exalt.” You stop from crossing your arms, affronted. Still better than her addressing a perfect stranger as _your majesty_ out of obligation and venom, you suppose.

A few seconds pass, and you can hear the glint in her eye as she says “if this is how we intend to dress today, I suppose clothing would be optional for both of us?”

Your eyes shoot open. Something has made you hotter than the fire and the tea near you combined. “I _will_ dress myself once I’ve fully woken up,” you insist petulantly. 

She nods with a sly smile, finishing her tea. She’s still smiling, amused and a tad bit chuffed. You can’t help but notice a small red blush in her cheeks, as if she can’t believe she said what she did- or can’t believe she hasn’t done so in awhile. It looks pleasant on her, and you lose yourself in it.

You blink and tear your eyes from her, disgusted with yourself for leering, though you doubt she paid your gaze much mind. If she did, she would have said something. 

You glance at her briefly. Her blush has not faded. You lose breath for a second before dismissing the idea that you had anything to do with it as little more than a fantasy. You are aware that she is beautiful, but it has never been because of you.

So much for being too chaste.

You lean to get up and dress yourself. Hours later, you wake up to find that you have not. 

\---

The boxes are out of your way as you retire for the evening. Still, you walk out of your way towards one, dragging it towards your bed. Falchion still rests on the other side like a lover, and its light helps you see as you unfold the box. You aren’t sure what to expect, but you expect _something_ \- and to be honest, that may be too much. 

On the surface are some books, the covers of which you can barely read in the light. You instead set them aside and forget about them. Laurent would be ashamed of both your lack of attention and the disorganized lump they lay on the ground in, but would always express such in an uncharacteristically teasing, understanding, singular way.

On the other side of where those were are knick-knacks, purely decorative in nature. There are so few you know that, sparse as they are, you can still see their color even without Falchion- though it helps to illuminate how garish and embarrassing they are. This red-and-blue candle holder looks far too patriotic and brash to be the tasteful and understated you used to claim your aesthetic to be. Gods, no wonder it drove Severa mad; the candlehelm itself could be a light. Even exposing your friends to it feels akin to forsaking their safety. You stash it under the bed, out of sight. 

You take a second of thought and place the books back in the box, next to the decor that you refuse to give any more of your attention to. You hear them press against a foreign object that certainly does not feel like cardboard, and ease them off, grabbing the object itself. You bring it to the light of the Falchion and notice a bracelet, made of twine and fur. You place it on and smile, though you don’t know why. Something about it brings warmth to your heart, yet always in a melancholic way.

The box is gently set back into the closet, sans the bracelet. You notice Falchion lying on your bed still, waiting for you. You have no place for it that does it honor. Certainly not back in your closet, ignored like an ignoble prop. But as you lie next to it, you’re distracted, and you feel ashamed to unsheath it only to use it as a lantern and a security blanket. It was destined for great things, true, but does protecting a little girl serve as a great thing? 

You toy with the bracelet resting around your wrist. Your pulse brushes against it every now and again, the fur tickling the skin. 

You set Falchion on one of the remaining boxes. Figuring out what to do with it can wait. 

You’re alright for now. 


	4. The Fourth Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina sleeps through the fourth day except for the times she wishes she had

You don’t fully recognize that you’re screaming until you’ve punched someone in the nose.

They recoil, hand loosening from your wrist as it falls free of touch. They have a hand below their nose as blood drips onto their hand. The way they look at you terrifies you. Angers you.

 _How dare they look at me that way!_ They _attacked_ me _!_

You reach to your side for Falchion, slamming your hand into the bed out of desperation. Where is it, where is it?

 _“Gods damn, where is it?!_ ”

You can’t find it, so you look at them again with all the hate and terror you can muster. _Run, you dastard. Run._ You all but beg them to fear you. But they don’t. They don’t move. They don’t attack you. They don’t confront you. They stare at you with red eyes, confused, regretful, pitying.

Pitying.

You’ve rarely felt so patronized.

You lunge at them and fall on your face about two feet away from the bed.

As you hit the ground, you’re fully awake. You’re here.

And as it turns out you did not scrape the splinters from the floor.

Embarrassed and hurt in many ways, you lean up on both hands, looking at the cause of your agony. _Panne._

“What?!”

She’s standing near the box where you left Falchion, sporting more emotion than you imagined she even knew. She’s astonished, regretful, curious, concerned, and above all, _confused._ That may be the part that gets you riled up the most. _Confused? How dare she! She knew what she was doing! She knew better!_

You stare at her with as much anger and betrayal as you feel until you can see and think better, and notice the same woman you left to sleep curled up in a ball last night, lips teasing at a smile. You hate that she saw who you are, what’s left of you. That you could have _hurt_ her. You’re deeply, deeply ashamed.

“Why?” you plead. You barely notice you’re crying, but you feel disgusting already.

She still doesn’t know what to do in response to your shame. You hear her set something on the box atop Falchion that you cannot see. As she walks out of the room, she grazes your hair with her hand, fur cold from the blood.

“I could smell it,” is all she says.

With that, she walks out of the room, but you haven’t even begun to broach all of the things you want to shout at her, scream into her large and sensitive ears so she’ll be terrified to ever violate you again as she did here, to trigger your panic, to blind your senses, to leave you so ugly disgusting, inelegant…

\---

You wake up a few hours later and don’t know what to stay.

You pull yourself up and face Falchion, still leaving it be. You’re curious as to what’s atop it. You’re surprisingly lucid and emotionless considering where you were in your last waking moments. Your head is aching and you’re shaking when you stand, but you’re standing with only rudimentary thought in your head.

To be honest, you kind of prefer it.

You reach over Falchion and touch the bracelet from last night- now realizing that your wrist is bare. There’s something comforting about it, because it’s homemade, and because it’s personal. You can’t even remember when you got it, because you’re repulsed by thinking of the past that far. Oftimes you forget it altogether, through harsh effort. You don’t know why you have it, but there’s just something nurturing about the way it fits your wrist so perfectly.

You hold it for a long time before you retire back to bed. Gods know you don’t want to leave it for days, weeks, months, years, a lifetime.

\---

You wake up at night and realize that you’re going to have to face her. You pull the covers over your head. Gods, you want to sleep, sleep for ages and wake up back in a world that doesn’t matter, but you're not the least bit tired. You’re wide awake, with a burden that feels too heavy to lift, but too damaging to release.

You look at the bracelet on your arm, fur encompassing your wrist. The object of comfort and controversy. You stare at it, but you can’t imagine why Panne felt the need to remove it from you. Is it because she sees no boundaries and doesn’t follow niceties, or was it that urgent for her to do?

Why don’t you know?

The reason seems obvious. Blindingly obvious. It's under the surface of your mind but you can't piece it together. You feel foolish, like a defining memory has escaped your mind- and you've blocked it from re-entering.

You groan, arm outstretched on the bed, captured by humanity. You can vaguely hear her breathe, but she’s not asleep. She’s awake, and she could be waiting for you.

Whatever it is, you best leave the bracelet on your bed.

\---

She doesn’t immediately look at you when you reach the main room. The fire in the small metal furnace is still going strong even as you’ve burnt the day away. She’s still on the floor, crosslegged, watching the flames, a log slice next to her. She hasn’t let the fire go out, and she isn’t about to start now.

You don’t know what to say, and feel wracked with guilt that you didn’t make supper, and it’s far too late now. You sit on the chair and face the fire yourself.

Neither of you talk for awhile. It’s about ten minutes of trying to figure out how on Earth to explain yourself until she apologizes.

She doesn’t look at you when she utters it. She sounds like she’s trying to be toneless, but her voice is shaking, and you want to reach out and hold her hand, apologize profusely, and try to explain to her what you can’t to yourself, because even if you don’t know, she deserves to.

You know you shouldn't ask her why she apologized, because that much you think you know. But you still ask.

She looks up at the ceiling. “I feel it is obvious,” she says defensively. “I startled you from your sleep. Apparently I was not as stealthy as I hoped.”

You clasp your hands to your face, huffing into your palms. You can just let it go. You should just let it go. You've spent so long letting things go out and keeping them out, but as much as you hope you rest in a land far away from your troubles, you feel you're simply barricading them.

“Lady Panne,” you breathe. “You and I both know that I wasn't simply startled awake.”

She sighs, because she wishes she didn't know. Panne is easy to read. “I apologized,” she insists. “Of my own volition, at that. Do you need to drag me through it?” That's what you expected- a defensive line of attack meant to guilt people from leaving wounds too close. Unfortunately, as remorseful as you are at pushing it upon her, she happened to take shelter with the most stubborn woman the world over.

“I did not intend to lecture you,” you reply as politely as you can, but your bucking up indicates that it's getting less polite. “But as dense as I am, I know that you aren't telling the whole truth.”

“Would you like to revisit that event?” she challenges you, boiling your blood as hot as the furnace. “It certainly seemed more painful for you than I. Is there something I am missing?”

You're losing your patience. “Hardly anything you've _missed,”_ you say, “but I've not either. And I know you're hardly telling the truth.”

She looks at you, pained and low on temper.

“You pity me, don't you?”

_“Absolutely not.”_

Her reply is immediate and she grips the log in front of her as though she's angry enough to break it in half. You're clearly stunned speechless, gawking at her as you lock gazes. She holds yours, incredulous and hurt, but as she sees you it drops into regret and sorrow.

You're babbling as fast as ever, near tears. “My apologies, Lady Panne. I am so, so sorry.”

Finally her eyes close.

“You’ve made your point clear. Now leave me.”

Even though this is your house, you comply, retreating back to your room. As you lay down, you bitterly remember that you set out to explain and apologize, and you did nothing but accuse her and fail to accept her apology.

You hear her breathing in the other room. It's labored, and she can't get it to settle. You want to go out there and apologize, to hug her and settle her breathing, to keep her from being as stressed and tumultuous as you. Her breathing barely settles before you fall asleep and stop hearing it entirely.


	5. The Fifth Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina tries to fix things for the better

The first thing you want to do when you wake up is talk to her. Well, that's not true. The first thing you want to do is plead forgiveness, but for either scenario you haven't an idea of the words to say. You lie in bed trying to think of fitting ones, but all of them sound like niceties at best and patronizing garbage at worst.

You groan and throw your pillow over your head. If you could just _not exist,_ you would welcome it. You showed yourself at your worst to someone you respected dearly, and you were given the opportunity to make it go away, just make it go away like you try to do with everything else, with the past, the present, and the future, and you _slap it away_. You've forsaken any right to hide from her now, and the fact that you have to face it terrifies you.

What has changed in you?

You hear a small glass hit the wood arm of your chair and groan quietly, though at this point you could stomp your feet on the bed in a tantrum. As you do, though, you realize you fell asleep atop the bracelet. _At the very least, this suppressed the scent,_ you think, _for what that matters._ You pick it off the mattress and hold it, and immediately you’re comfortable. At the very least, without inhibition. Still, something about it feels fleeting, immaterial. Like when you finish speaking to Panne it will go away.

 _Panne._ That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Not your musings, but what she needs? You both knew her stay would be temporary, and she could be gone tomorrow- you’d never forgive yourself if she left with her last impression of you being an angry neurotic wreck. Imagine if that’s all you gave her. The idea throws your gut around your insides until you hear the furnace roar again from being fed once more.

“I can hear your breath, man-spawn.”

Well, no time like the present. You leave the bracelet on the bed once more and leave the room.

\---

“I see that the morning is treating you nicely.”

You have a way of showing your hand during small talk- even when you say things you mean, it is always padding. Though the morning light that breaks through the trees and window does feed into her skin _distractingly_ well, both she and you can tell that you’re biding your time- and she isn’t about to jump in front of a potential explanation from you. Even the tea she’s punishing at the moment seems to hold more intrigue to her.

Nothing’s gonna make this easier.

You just nod and try to smile (though you look more resigned than pleasant, you’re sure) hoping not to make it awkward. “Lady Panne…”

“I am listening.”

You place a hand to your temple. “Of the other night… I would just ask… in the future, please do not… without consent...” Frozen out of words, you hold up your barren hand.

She looks at you, head tilted, ears hanging limp at her side, and you freeze up altogether. _So much for not making it awkward._ “I will do so. I apologize for not considering it then.” Before you can take a breath, she adds “but I believe that now it is _you_ are not telling the whole truth.”

You close your eyes. Damn how things turn around. You could point out her passive admission that she had more to say during last night’s confrontation, but that doesn’t answer for you and what she expects you to.

You say the nearest words to your mouth in order to throw yourself out of commitment. “I feared something dangerous happened,” you admit. “I could only sense… something bad. I apologize.”

She nods. “Very well.”

In response, you think your eyes come frighteningly close to popping out. “Oh.”

She understands you? You don’t even understand why you panicked, why you screamed, why you were ready to fight, to kill, _Gods help me what if I killed her,_ yet she understands _._ You almost killed your friend out of your own neuroticism and fear, but she does not resent you. Gods, you resent yourself far more for it.

She looks at you like Mother when you held a sword across from her, tearfully apologizing for swearing to kill her, and she looked at your attempted matricide thinking that it was understandable, that you weren’t a monster, that she _pitied_ you, and you start to tear up again.

You feel the pressure shift on the ground as Panne stands up to take your hand. You stand with her so she isn’t reaching down. She’s bad at comfort and you can tell she isn’t quite sure of what she is doing, just that she knows that you would like it. You can’t bring yourself to waste that effort, so you take a few deep breaths and calm yourself down.

“Thank you,” you breathe.

She lets you go and tries to smile, but you can read her sorrow. She’s exhausted, in the way that indicates that she’s carrying something heavy and just wants to let it go, and despite doing little-to-nothing for so long, you feel the same way.

So why do you want to set your burden down only to carry her own?

She sits at her perch on the floor once more. She closes her eyes, but you still feel her looking at you from within her eyelids. You’re as present as you can be, waiting. You haven't touched your tea yet.

“The reason…” she starts. “I am up here is correct. Technically. I am looking for a home. But it’s not for the fun of travel.”

You nod. Realizing she can’t see you, you say “I understand.”

“I heard you,” she says. Oh yes, her sensitive hearing- she could hear the wings of a hummingbird three towns over. “In truth, I am looking for a healthy place to settle down, and give birth.”

Your eyes widen, and you smile with joy. “You are with child?” you ask. “That’s wonderful news!”

She shakes her head, head turning downward. Her voice gets weaker as she goes. “Taguel have extremely brief pregnancies. Were I pregnant, I would already show signs.”

You settle down, mirth leaving your eyes. How silly you are to assume! “So it’s a goal, then.”

“A goal I cannot waste any more time with.” She sighs, as if she wants to end it there but can’t. “Needless to say, your demons aren’t… unusual. I would never treat them as such, nor would I look you in the eyes and tell you that you should be ashamed. That would shame us both, and the two of us are equals.”

"Equals?" You want to believe that. You're just not sure you can.

She nods quietly. She's not usually this soft, and it scares you to see. This _should_ have a happy ending, but it doesn’t feel complete, or correct.

She clears her throat, but it does not remove her shaky sigh. Ttears she held at the edges of her eyes spill, for the first time that you have ever seen them released from her eyes. You stand to reach for her hand, but she does not reciprocate. She doesn’t make a sound, as if the very act of crying is a deep shame she wants to avoid but cannot- but you don't see it as a shame. You hate pity, and you can't bring yourself to pity her back. 

So much is on her heart, and you think you'll never understand even a portion of it, when it hits you.

It knocks you off your feet, and you cannot believe you were so thick as to avoid thinking on him at all.

\---

That night she falls asleep before you, while you sit in your chair after a day of fighting off intruding thoughts you dared not let her see, to remember, to find a home away from. She is so tired; you’ve rarely seen one sleep as hard as she. She’s not free, but the chains on her heart are lighter. You wouldn't dare place any back on her heart by addressing anything.

You watch her, alert, ready to defend. You wonder how she sleeps with such a purpose on her mind. Such desperation, such struggle, and so little motivation. A distant dream to cure her grief that she struggles to grasp. You try not to think that you’ve faced the same thing.

You finally think on him.

He was one of your friends from the future who traveled back in time with you. Nah aside, he was the youngest- six years your junior at a time where six years was quite a gulf. No more or less special than your fellow time travelers, he was your friend all the same. He was always nervous, on high alert, flight before fight every time, except the times you fought together. He called himself a coward, a craven, and hated how much he needed your help… but he did. He knew it. And help you always did, until you couldn't, and what you feared would happen happened.

You identified with him because you were cut from the same cloth. This created a special sort of kinship that you have had with no one else- pride in the other's skill before care for one’s own wellbeing- because of what you knew. You knew fear. You knew panic. You knew desperation. Even as the throes of war consumed you and left you with only the barest, truest emotions, you knew that he had every reason to fear- and the fact that it did not consume him makes him a better person than you are.

You blink and look at her again. She’s still sleeping, and part of you feels a fool for ever having scared her, confused her, made her face her own loss again. Part of you wants to guard her from the things that could harm her, just as you did him, but how can you when the thing you should protect her from is yourself?

You leave the room and sit on your bed. The bracelet is still there, and you consciously avoid sitting on it. With a sigh, you pick it up. Now you remember, and it’s so close you wish you could forget, how unfair it is that everyone of your friends lives here, living the best lives they can- dancing in graveyards, playing the violin, traveling the world, burying their noses in books, taking care of animals, able to embrace their parents if they so want, even if they insist they hate them, and take comfort in being alive, _except for him,_ because you promised to protect him and you failed.

You miss him. It was beyond friendship, which you had, and romance, which you did not have. It was a knowing bond between a two companions that they could succeed for each other- in wartime, you never thought of anything more than that, nor did it develop into attraction (though you have natural causes to thank for that). But when he fell... part of you fell too. With him gone, you were no longer a protector, and you never brought all your friends out of the war. One of the main reasons you fought, you failed in. Though you were grateful to save the world, that was a job everyone shared. The one you set upon yourself was one you failed at, and you still haven't forgiven yourself. 

You still haven't forgiven herself for letting others remove him from her.

Tears prick your eyes again as you hold the bracelet, his fur lining the inside and outside, a rare gift from him to you. A thank-you for always protecting him, which is a joke now. An apology for ever needing it, when it was what he needed most.

You set it back atop Falchion and retire to bed.


	6. The Sixth Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina and Panne go to town.

You wake up after another nightmare and confine your screams to your pillow. Grima’s gaping maw doesn't consume you before you wake but you still aren’t sure he isn’t there. Your breath is shallow and there are tears covering your face, tears you wipe away before she sees them because you would never let her think that your grief is more important than hers.

You realize you haven’t hidden them as you go to make tea. You make eye contact with her for a moment and she closes her eyes, nodding. You let it go as best as you can and make tea for you both. She grabs it before it cools down, quietly thanking you. 

“I hope the morning has found you well, my lady,” you say. Then you’re this close to covering your mouth. _My_ lady? That’s a bit presumptuous- which it shouldn’t be because you’ve used it passively before to many of your equals and superiors. It just feels… presumptuous. You’ve never felt that she is _your_ lady.

Apparently you’re making such a fool of yourself that Panne is chuckling to herself. You don’t look at her, your tea suddenly very interesting. Then: “I have never seen you wear red before.” You look up to see her smirking. “You wear it very well.”

You tear your eyes away. Now the tea is apparently fascinating. You start saying a few things but you stop them all, content to just blush the moment away. 

She takes another sip of tea, learning to at least tolerate it. Her right hand rests in her lap. You pretend you don’t notice her wearing the bracelet Yarne made for you. It’s hers. It should be hers. She deserves it more than you do.

\---

The two of you stand apart as you walk to town, but you notice how close she is and don’t mind. 

Your excuse is that you needed a second chair. You expected her to insist that she needed none, but she smiled and decided to join you. You certainly felt no urge to argue.

Still, it’s odd not to be visiting the town alone. 

Even odder that she would consider someone like you worth the journey.

You’re wearing plainclothes, though you usually dress up in lord’s armor when heading to town. It does little but comfort and shield you, but you’re not uncomfortable without it. Panne is dressed in the same tunic and skirt that you first saw her in. If they discomfort her, she’s not showing it.

You recognize the ambient noises for the first time in ages. They’ve been- just as advertised- in the background, and you’ve hardly noticed them until now. The birds chitter-chattering in the background, the light breeze that rushes in and out of becoming a sudden wind, the sparse raindrops that hit the ground every now and again. 

You forgot what it sounds like to hear the world turn, or you turning with it.

You notice her hand rest on her head. She’s trying to withhold her stress, but she looks disgusted- doubly so. Disgusted with whatever’s affecting her head, and disgusted at something internal. When she holds her ears to her head, you recognize it. 

You can’t plug her ears, and you’d certainly look foolish to try, so you reach for your hand. She releases her ears and takes it. You feel her squeeze every now and again, and smile. You feel her pulse lower and the small march of rain dissipate in the fur where blood once lay, washing it out. You realized that neither of you have bathed in too long, but you hope doing nothing but exist doesn’t make your stench stand out. 

You close your eyes for a brief moment and squeeze her hand further, but for once she doesn’t seem to pay it mind.

\---

At this point Anna knows not to hassle you about deals and prospective purchases, as you have politely shown over time that you are not receptive. You’re busy browsing the chairs in her bazaar to see if one fits the aesthetic in your house, but you feel foolish because your aesthetic is “functional and nothing else”. Still, you’re browsing the aisles, trying to find something that fits. 

You hear Anna chatter in the background about something that’s half-off, some tea kettle that you cannot see a use for as yours works just fine. You look over to see her at the front desk putting on her best saleswoman act, and across the counter from her is a deeply disinterested Panne. The more Anna speaks, the more Panne looks perturbed, and while at this point you have tuned Anna out, you realize that not everyone has developed an “off switch” towards her.  

“I can assure you,” you hear Panne say, “that I absolutely do not care.” 

You snort and focus on them.  _ That’s as blunt as it gets.  _

Anna hmms, finger tapping on her chin. “That’s a shame,” she muses. “Well, what fits your aesthetic? I’m sure we can find something that we can work something out on.”

“I am sure we  _ cannot _ ,” is the response. Anna chuckles politely, and Panne continues with a growl. “Are you going to patronize me further, or may I go through the store?”

In her fakest customer service voice, Anna says “absolutely! I hope you find something you like!” 

Panne nods and finds you close by. Aware that she was watched, she takes your hand and pulls you away. “I honestly thought I would never get away from her.” She smirks, but she’s blushing. 

“Honestly, that’s the first time I’ve paid her any mind in Gods know how long.” You chuckle at yourself, as you rarely talk negatively about anyone, but you make an exception for that Anna or really any Anna that tries to sell you things you know you don’t need. 

She chuckles and lets your hand go, disappearing in the aisles before the moment gets too domestic.

You turn back towards the seats and peruse them. All the chairs feel so… impersonal. Designed to be individual, lonely, without true purpose. They can be placed anywhere in your home and taken out as easily.

You need permanence. 

You notice Panne return to the front counter, angry at herself as she waves Anna down. She says something to Anna that you can’t hear, but that satisfies her. You turn away, and walk towards an area with larger seating- for two.

You can’t help but smile to yourself. 

\---

Everything is in a wagon that will surely beat you home- delivery free of charge, so Anna says. You and Panne quietly decide to walk through the town along the main road, a fountain to your side and small buildings to the side that dissipate visibly in either direction. The chatter of everyone rings as hollow to you as it is overwhelming to her, so you hold her hand, so she is comforted and you realize you are near someone you care about. 

The last time you were near someone who cared was around your father shortly before your departure. Though you try so often not to, you acted like a young girl around him, catching him up on the events and gossip you can't imagine he cared about. Here, you feel an equal.

Your feet touch cobblestone streets that children run through, screaming with as much vigor and glee as they can manage. Panne notices and turns away sharply, and you hear her mutter to herself about time. You know she’d hate for you to address it- especially in public- so you squeeze her hand. 

She smiles, as she often has where you remind her that you’re here. 

As the streets end, so do the people, and as grass consumes the stone, the natural sounds take over the noise of the town. The rain starts to swell up and hit harder- while it’s not at the level of a storm, it’s raining hard enough to soak you both. Panne walks faster with a growl, but you’d be lying if you said that you minded the rain. Its drops nestle and dissolve in your hair, as messy as it has been for a long while, and you dedicate yourself to bathing, even though you have half a mind to walk right back into the rain upon finishing. 

The two of you make it home, the wagon waiting for you. You help carry the couch inside with the nameless deliveryman, not minding the rain, while Panne reaches for something on the seat wrapped in paper and disappears into the house. You thank the deliveryman and watch the wagon wheel away lazily, while you hear Panne draw a bath in the back room. Odd, as she can groom herself, but you are not in the business of telling her what to do. 

You take a seat. You don’t pay attention to what it looks like- birch wood with thin cushions, if you recall correctly- but perhaps you’ve found your new aesthetic. 

\---

The two of you sit on the couch, a bowl of stew in both your hands. She made it while you were in the bath, and you sit here in your smallclothes taking it in. It tastes… different. A little off, but not objectionably so. 

She finishes her soup in record time, setting the bowl on the ground. Her leg rests against yours- a benefit of the small seat that you did not recognize but can’t say you’re ungrateful for. A towel is on her lap, and she presses it to her hair. She groans and vigorously shakes her head, which gets the water out of her hair quite efficiently- and onto you. 

_ “What in hell?!” _

You shout in shock and disgust, hair falling over your eyes. She flinches, and inexplicable anger consumes your body. You manage to bite your lip and fight it, but you know you must look murderous- especially with your hair and body soaked enough to make you look like an angry kitten.

Not looking at you, she hands you her towel, body language slack and apologetic. You giggle at the gesture and take it, thanking her, and the anger dissipates, replaced with something… almost as strong in the opposite direction. 

Perhaps the sudden anger to apologetic affection is how Noire feels.

You dry yourself off and set the stew aside. The towel is on your lap now. 

“Perhaps I should stick to grooming myself,” she admits. You look at her, and see a smile tease at her mouth. Her thick, still slicked hair rests at the side of her face, covering parts of her ear. Her eyes stare straight ahead, except for the moments where they occasionally look at you and make your heart soar as you fully realize how  _ gorgeous  _ she is.

This was not what you expected. Before she showed at your door, she felt above human, not to be trifled with like a simple woman, and you felt she only stayed with you because you were in the approximate direction of where she wanted to go. Gods, maybe she expected to have left by now… but you’re so glad she’s here. 

How did you manage to fall for her in only six days?

You place a hand at the nape of her neck. She falls against you, finally out of strength. She’s a head taller than you, so she fits awkwardly on your shoulder, but you couldn’t mind less if you tried. 

“I don’t want to leave.”

There’s something about the way she says that. Resignation, insecurity, vulnerability, exhaustion. A lot of negative emotions for a positive sentiment. 

You aren’t sure how to respond, so you respond honestly.

“I don’t want you to leave either.”

She hmms, content.   
  



	7. The Sixth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina wakes up to watch things unfurl

You wake up for a slight second in a panic, breath caught in your throat. You want to scream, but can’t bring yourself to do that to her. You notice her on your chest, breath rising and falling near your heartbeat, and the once-clear vision of Grima falls out of your mind’s eye.

\---

You wake up on the couch a second time, and she’s already awake on your shoulder. You don’t stir, because you’re sure you’ll fall asleep again, until you hear her crying.

She’s trying to be silent again, inaudible, invisible, but you can hear her. Does she even know that someone can? You try very hard to play asleep, but you know you aren’t pretending well. 

Suddenly, she leans off of you and stands up.

Too surprised to react inauthentically, you blink and lean up. “Whatever is the matter?” you ask too loudly. 

She swerves around and looks at you with regret. You meet her gaze with confusion that feels more like frustration.

“Did I do something wrong?” you demand. 

“I can’t stay.”

The words are quick, but they immediately scar you, and you recoil, nearly knocking the couch over. “Whyever not?” you choke, the words like spit in the back of your throat. 

She holds a hand to her head, and paces around the room, changing direction with every new thought. “I… I… damn it all…” So many thoughts, and she cannot share even one. 

“ _ Panne _ ,” you insist, dropping formalities. You mean to sound firm but that’s hard to do when pleading. 

“Do you remember Yarne?” she asks, still walking. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

“Of course I do,” you insist, gut dropping inside you. “He was my friend.”

She nods, remembering, then drops her head. “Damn it. You knew him much better than I did.” You don’t say anything, because she’s right. She’s right and you’re sorry because you don’t deserve that right. 

You watch in utter bafflement as she looks around and eventually settles on you. 

“He acted strange… in the short time I knew him,” she explains. “Every child from the past recognized both parents instinctively. They became a family immediately. I would imagine you knew both parents as well, despite how little you knew them for.”

You nod, still feeling like you're missing the obvious. “I've done little but think of them.” 

She sighs. “And I little but think of him. That's why I can't stay.” 

“Because of him?” 

“In a way.”

She sighs and sits on the ground again, nearly collapsing into her regular seat. The tears still sting the edges of her eyes, but they soon blur to your own as you struggle to realize why you're so distraught. When you do, you’re even more devastated.

“Did Yarne ever talk about his father to you?” she asks.

You think, because you know the answer is no and you can't avoid disappointing her so it's better just to think. “Vaguely,” you say. “Possibly no more than you.” She looks at the floor, and you can feel the tension from where you are. You try to explain. “Talking about our parents was a sore subject… where we were, in the war, we could rarely afford to be emotional…”

You notice her eyes. The tears are starting to spill again. She looks to understand, but all she shows is disappointment. She's let go of her body, like she’s waiting for the winds to take her back to her son. 

This is a consequence of your own actions. That’s why you can’t make her stay, but she’s the closest you felt to right for ages. She gave you purpose, and that’s all you needed.

Then she stands. “I deeply apologize,” she says. “I never should have dug past wounds up to someone who still suffered their pain.” 

You shake your head, and she stands up, across from you. You want to tell her that she shouldn't worry, that she doesn’t need to think you can't handle them, that she shouldn't pity you, that you are her equal, that you are  _ worthy _ , but as she embraces you, you realize that you've tried to convince her not to fear you so much that you've never stopped to care for her. 

You know she should go. You know this is a sacrifice you should make. You know she deserves to know and find the father of her child. But the idea agonizes you so much that you can’t say it.

“I'm so sorry,” you breathe. “I'm so, so sorry.”

She rests her head near yours. Her right ear lazes near your breast, and you can hear her stifle sobs with your left. 

She brings herself up to face you. She's impossibly close. You can feel your words. “Thank you for sheltering me,” she says, and so much is unsaid in the word  _ sheltering  _ that it makes you heartsick. “But if I don't leave now, I will  _ never  _ leave.” She chokes up again. “And I  _ need  _ him.” 

You need her too. 

She slowly places her arm around your neck. Sensitive. Cautious. Intimate. Your heart is fitting to burst from your smallclothes, and even with only them on you're so hot you can't stand it.

“If you don't mind,” she says.

“ _ Closer _ ,” you plead. 

She kisses you with every ounce of her. Every movement of her lips says  _ goodbye,  _ and you kiss her back in a way that begs her to stay. When you wake up alone on the couch wearing nothing but a bracelet and a deep sense of loss, you deduce that you have failed.

You don't have the energy to cry.

This is where you are now. 


	8. The Days After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina doesn't keep track of the days that well.

You don't keep track of the days afterward well.

You wear plainclothes for two of them and then switch back to your regalia. You don't take them off even to sleep half the time. You need their safety, you need their warmth, but you feel as naked as the day you woke up without her.

You occupy yourself by chopping wood for the furnace, which comes easiest to mind for you, but it takes little effort to finish cutting the tree you're working on. Even then, you are sloppy and miss a few chops. You convince yourself that ugly wood is acceptable as it all burns the same. You put those logs in the furnace and watch them all burn out within a few days, sometimes waking up to the fire burning out. You start sleeping without a fire on as well.

You still dream about Grima occasionally, mocking you, chasing you to the ends of the Earth, scrutinizing you with eight soulless, iris-less eyes that read you too well. You wake up screaming every time, bashing your pillow in even as you regain consciousness as if it has the answers to tell you why you are like _this_.

Falchion rests atop the box where you left it so long ago, not ceasing to glow. You manage to leave it on the box for a couple of days, then it's on the bed once more. When you awake, you reach for it, even when you don't have nightmares. It comforts you for a split second before you feel ashamed. Eventually, though, you take off the bracelet and slip it in the box where you found it, and leave Falchion in its place.

You eat when you're sure you need it. You boil vegetables and occasionally stock up on meat but your trips to town get rarer. You don't fix yourself tea. You should be scared about how your eating habits are so scarce, but you don't feel much fear or concern towards yourself.

You wake up after another nightmare. This one isn't of Grima. It's of her. You can see her running, in human form, and you can't see yourself but you know it's dangerous. You're fearful. You cry out her name but she doesn't hear you. Suddenly, the path ends, and she doesn't fall but disappears entirely.

You wake to find that you've cut a sizable hole in your bed, and all but throw Falchion across the room, where it crashes against the wall no worse for wear. You scream at the sword, the bed, yourself, but no one hears it.

She enters your nightmares at times because you try not to think of her and fail. You try not to think of any danger befalling her, but you have no clue where she is and what she is doing, and you realize she only left on the quest because of your own negligence, and then you realize that if something happened to her, you’ve ended the Taguel race and its last two brilliant, beautiful, brave members, and the thought makes you wish you were never born, just to escape that guilt.

You take a bath to clean your mind and body. Over the course of an hour you scrub down. You find your hand on your neck at the same place she held you and feel nothing but your own frail hand failing to show you affection. You sink down in the tub to your chin, nearly scooting it an inch. If you sank further you cannot convince yourself that you would altogether mind. No more nightmares, no more despondence, no more blacking out the best and worst memories, no more waiting for time to go by…

You try not to let passive thoughts consume you. You survived before her, and you can survive without her. Perhaps in the future you can find another woman who will support you, that will hold your hand when you phase from reality until you wake up, who holds you when you wake up screaming, who you can explain things to without guilt, but with Panne you did more than _survive,_ you were starting to take back what was stolen from you. You haven’t done anything to _earn_ a woman who understands you, and all you can do is think of how much you _miss_ her, how you felt because of her, the path she led you on, one that’s invisible in all of the weeds you’re trapped in.

You aren't sure where you wake up at first until you recognize it's on the couch, clad only in smallclothes, and you find you’ve run out of tears. You feel childish for missing her, but can’t avoid thinking that she was what drove you to start doing things right.

It was so much easier to do the right thing for someone you cared about than for someone you don’t care about at all.

\---

You're in the chair as you generally are alone. You're eating a bowl of soup, your spoon clinking against the metal in a way that pierces your eardrums. You take a few bites and resolve to take more.

You don't.

You stand up, the furnace going out after you lazily threw one of the last logs in there. You look towards your room, trying to imagine sleep with only half a bed free of the slice. You suppose you'll sleep just fine in the chair.

You pace around, your mind in a fog. That’s the most distressing part of how you’ve felt lately. You can’t focus, you can’t fully wake up, and the only thing you can do is sleep, except now you’ve carved into your bed.

So you sigh, fist balled, and sit back down.

You stare straight across at the paper-covered object that Panne bought the same day that she left. It used to be too raw to look at, before it became a prop that became as much a part of the background as the boxes you still haven’t put back in the closet. You’ve found that the best way to avoid pain is to forget things entirely. Still, there are times you notice it for what it is, and you close your eyes and sigh, because the alternative to missing her is nothing at all.

You can’t ignore it. You know it’s there. It burns in your mind.

Out of spite more than anything, you open your eyes, stand up, and walk to it. You lift it up gingerly, feeling a handle through the paper, and take it back to your seat. You set it on your lap, recognizing the dimensions. It’s small- about half a foot tall at best without taking in the handle. The bottom is smooth and rests neatly on your lap. There’s a slight curvature up where the paper stops conforming to the surface and goes on its own.

You reason that you already spoiled yourself on most of it, so you take off the paper wrapping.

After the dust settles, a tea kettle sits on your lap. It’s unimpressive, metal, and has no color or decoration on it, but you still smile. You aren’t quite sure what to make of it until you go to set it on the counter and see the one you still have sitting there, slowly rusting away into nothingness.

_“But consider getting a new kettle soon. It’s starting to rust.”_

The memory is the least alone you’ve felt since she left, and you have to stop from crying again. Gods, you swear you could bathe in the tears you’ve shed as of late.

You set aside your old kettle and replace it with the new. You think, then fill it with water and set it to boil. You close your eyes and appreciate how much it hurts your heart, and how you’re withstanding it.

She thought of you.

You were worthy of her.

You walk to your room, the footsteps temporarily relieving the pain with the pressure of every step before it floods back in. You kneel at the box you set the bracelet in, and gingerly hold it. It burns, but you withstand it, because it will sooth in time if you let it.

You don’t know if she said anything in between the time between you kissed her and when you “woke up”. Blacking out tends to do that, and you’ve had the tendency to dissociate from moments of trauma for awhile- far too easily at that.

If she said anything about Yarne’s bracelet that ended up on your arm, you don’t remember it, and have spent time not knowing before you took it off. You wonder what the reasons were- what she said, if you begged to wear it, if you snuck it from her, if she adorned you with it. All you know is that you miss her, it belongs to her, and you never should have taken it, but at the same time it feels right.

You put it on. You don’t know what she said, but you know it makes you feel less alone.

You leave the room when the kettle whistles.  



	9. More Days After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next days are also a blur

You’re forced into town when you find it impossible to sleep in the chair. You buy a new mattress, still barely talking to Anna. It’s made of piles of feathers, tied up in silk, and measures as tall as someone who spends half of their waking hours in bed should desire. When it’s delivered, you immediately put it on, throw the old one about five feet out of the door, and sleep.

You wake up with no nightmares and boil a second cup of tea. You fully recognize you’re dangerously low on logs for the fire, to the point that soon you will have no kindling for tea. Reluctantly, you trudge outside in the rain (thankfully wearing a jacket this time) and search for a downed log, because you cannot begin to explain how little you want to chop a tree down. Luckily, you find one, and are able to saw and chop a few cuts of it. You’re still out of practice, but it will keep the fire going for a few more days.

When you sleep that night, it feels much more comforting and you realize how much you missed the warmth of the fire.

You wake up screaming again but manage to keep your hands to yourself. You rest them on your chest as you gasp for breath, blinking the images of Panne falling off a cliff and evaporating away. She’s fine, you repeat. _She’s fine, she’s fine, she’s fine, she’s fine._

You aren’t sure if you believe it, but you manage to roll out of bed, dress up, and go to work on the tree. As you get to chopping it, you start to time it, push more power into it, cut more definitively and accurately, and soon it turns into a test of how well you can fight the piles of wood.

It’s a test you get a meager grade in, but the fire cares not.

That night, you find yourself transfixed to one of the boxes. You believe it will pass, but it’s the first thing you think of that morning. You drag one out, prepare morning tea, and go through it. More trinkets and decorative items stand below your feet, and you aren’t sure what to do with them all. They’re so… repugnantly bold, taking up so much space, but it’s better than nothing. You place them on whatever shelves and table surfaces you can find. You’re no master decorator, but it looks fine.

The ladybug painting reminds you of Noire, so fearful was she of anything with six legs. The chainmail-laden curtain is distinctly Kjelle and her love of all things armor. There are some clothes with enough ruffles and curls to make Nah look plain. There’s some perfume with a chipped bottle that smells distinctly like Severa when you pull it out, and a small bit spills before you turn it on its side and rush it to the washroom.

Some of the book titles are too lachrymose and sensational to appeal to anyone except Owain (who could certainly find weapon names within them, you imagine), but when you open it, it’s distinctly Cynthia’s handwriting near the dog ears- smiling faces and all.

There’s a few samples of desert plant fronds pressed in parchment that you recall Laurent giving you, and you also recall the (now broken) fancy white plates that Brady gave you because “don’t tell Ma, but I don’t need any of this shit”. You feel guilty for breaking them but can’t bring yourself to throw them out. Towards the bottom of the box are masks, ones that Gerome immediately rebuffed- to his credit, as they’re embarrassing.

The one at the bottom is the mask you wore as Marth- crucial, valuable, needed, but already flooding you with memories of a future too much a despair to fathom, and a past too raw to remember.

You also can’t ignore that nothing from your brother Morgan is there. Sometimes you would like to forget everything like he has, but you can’t. You’re carrying these bags forever, and can only shift their weight for a stronger stance.

You decide one box is enough for the day and go about your routine.

Your routine fills out over time. It’s sometimes just chopping wood, then it’s chopping wood and looking through boxes, then it’s chopping wood, looking through boxes, and decorating. Then you remember to make the basic necessities routine as well- bathing, eating, placing your hands over your chest when you wake up frightened and muttering the same thing over and over- so they’re not standout. So that your self-care is routine. So that you understand that you deserve to be kind to yourself.

You’re not fine at dealing with yourself, but you’re okay at living with yourself.

Soon your routine involves a weekly visit to market to stock up on food you actually desire eating. As the days go by, even wearing the full lord’s regalia, no one seems to recognize you- even as your hair gets a little more voluminous and you put light makeup and Severa’s perfume on. That’s when you realize how much money you have left over from what you were given by your parents when they could sense that you weren’t staying, but neither of you said anything because if you didn’t say it you could pretend it wasn’t happening.

Maybe all the money was enough of a cushion that you let yourself fall towards it and never landed.

You purchase a fine green bean salad for what is probably too much. You eat it on a seat near the fountain and let it remind you of your parents. You think of how little Lucina must be growing into a smart young woman and a handful for her parents, scampering around with the energetic brother you never knew in Morgan, but how they’ll raise her into an intelligent, kind, rational young woman, who has the grace that so much war and trauma has taken from you.

You miss them. You miss who you used to be.

You don’t finish the salad until you get home and can comfortably weep in your chair.

You wake up devastatingly lonely. You don’t just miss Panne. You don’t just miss Yarne. You don’t just miss Mother and Father, Morgan, or your friends, or the Shepherds. You miss the feeling of family that every one of them gave you- and you don’t know what you can do except control what you have and who you are.

You’re set to stay in bed the entire day when you look up to see Falchion. The fabled sword rests on the window sill, as you don’t want it on your bed, don’t believe it deserves to be in your closet, and have unpacked nearly every box. It’s in the same purgatory that was once for your belongings, your diet, your health, and you yourself. Nowhere seems right for it. Nowhere fits.

The problem pervades your thoughts as you absently get up, brew tea, once again redecorate, draw a bath for far too long, and walk to town for no particular reason. It’s claimed and distracted your mind so much that you aren’t sure of what to do until you find yourself holding a piece of fabric, light blue, a red stripe, and the brand of the exalt on it.

You smile.

A few pieces of fabric, a seamstress, and a jog home later, you hang Falchion on the wall in its new holder. A remaining nail is what holds it up by the strap quite well, and though the fabric is ridiculously overstated, it brings in some nice color that you haven’t appreciated in ages.

It’s shiny. It’s gaudy. It’s possibly visible from the heavens. But at least you notice it.

The next morning you wake up comfortably, at peace. You see Falchion hanging from the wall, exalted as can be. You feel the Taguel bracelet on your wrist and hold your hand to your chest. You feel the heat radiating from the furnace envelop you. You see the candlestick you pulled from underneath your bed on the windowsill Falchion used to rest on.

You see home.

You see that you made it. 

You smile and take in its comfort.


	10. This Particular Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina's peace is disrupted for a long time after

You wake up to the sound of knocking and leap out of bed onto the floor face-first. 

You’re startled, and your vision barely keeps up with you as you look up and shout “Oy! Who goes there?” Not waiting for an answer, you scramble to your feet and look out the window. 

No one to the left, no one to the right, and no one at your front door. It isn’t even fully light out. You stand in your night clothes, fighting off the urge to reach for Falchion. This isn’t a big deal, you convince yourself, because you’re used to convincing yourself.  _ You shouldn’t worry. You shouldn’t worry. You shouldn’t worry. You shouldn’t- _

Glass breaks from the other side of the cabin and you scream, but it turns into a growl of rage. You pull Falchion out of its sheath and run towards the door in the main room. You see shards of glass hit your furnace and lie on your chair from the nearest window. You run towards it, daring someone to get inside, sword drawn defensively. 

Then you hear a thud as something hits your furnace from outside, jolting it and releasing its grip from the wall. 

“What are you doing?” you yell, as if this mysterious creature will hear you. You run out the door, Falchion in hand, wearing nothing more than your nightclothes- not even a pair of shoes. You dash to the other side of the cabin to see what in the seven hells that pounding noise is. 

A bandit climbs at your broken window, legs swinging from the high grapple, kicking at your wall to climb in, sword in a holster on their side. They see you and drop, facing you with a sheath over their mouth and eyes full of hate. They have their hand on their sword, not taking their eyes off Falchion. They’re just a simple bandit, but something about them is more fearful than usual- as if you know you’re facing someone who will inflict damage.

“St-st-stay back,” you insist, but you’re stuttering from lack of practice in striking fear into the hearts of your enemies.  _ If only Owain were here…  _ “I would hope to do no harm, but I can promise nothing.”

They look at you, and drive their sword into Falchion. 

You almost drop it from the shock, but manage to keep a grip. You try and outspeed the bandit, but wherever you swing, they beat you to it. They throw their sword into yours as if the goal is to disarm you. It isn’t working, but you fear with enough effort it will, as your blade feels far heavier than it should. All you want to do is be rid of this dastard. You aren’t sure whether to kill them or scare him, and the uncertainty is making the decisions for you.

The bandit lands a cut on your forearm. 

You shout in pain from the sting, and see the laughing eyes of the bandit ahead of you. Your arm now feels heavier, weaker, and holding up Falchion is an arduous task. You stare them down, angry that a simple bandit could best you. 

The bandit smirks. “Easy prey.”

You narrow your eyes and scream as you drive Falchion through their ribs. 

\---

You sit outside of the house, stunned as the bandit stumbles away, a blood trail behind them that dissipates into the grass.  _ Easy prey  _ echoes and repeats through your head.  _ How dare they. As if I’ve given too little an effort to the world to be any less than one of its best warriors _ . Such a brag is what you would like to believe that you think, but you can’t help but think that the bandit knows you not, knows not of your adventures and deeds (Gods, they didn’t even recognize you  _ with _ Falchion) and can only see you as  _ easy prey _ .

And gods, your arm hurts like the damned. You nurse it with your other, a hole cut through your flimsy night tunic exposing your wound to the cold. You close your eyes to keep from crying, and try to stand up, but you don’t feel like doing anything. You could fall asleep right here-

“Fire!”

You hear the voice before you see who it’s from. Powerful, booming, beyond human. You look around desperately, and see a plume of smoke behind you. 

_ Damn me to hell. _

You run inside the front door and into the main room. The furnace is toppled over, facing directly into the wooden floor. The entirety of the floor is on fire, and it’s teasing at the chair and couch.

Your rage is more potent than your terror.  

You scream from fury again and run in a panic towards something, anything. The heat from the fire is overwhelming, and it’s too close to your skin to want to do anything but run from it, but you run into your washroom without feeling any pain. Yesterday’s bathwater is still in the tub, and without thinking, you slowly pull it into the main room with all the adrenaline you can muster and spill it out. 

At once, the smoke becomes so strong you swiftly lose consciousness, and all you can think is  _ not now, not now, not after everything. _


	11. The Day After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina wakes up

You dream of Yarne and you cry because you think you’re dead. He doesn’t really do much other than fight. You cry just seeing him, and apologize to him for everything, for not protecting him, for driving his mother to desperation, for failing. He doesn’t respond, he can’t hear you, but he’s smiling, and you figure that is all you have left of him.

\---

You wake up to see Panne there.

She’s not running, she’s not hiding, she’s not fighting, and even as long as you hold her hand she doesn’t evaporate into nothingness with the rest of the world.

You fall back asleep before checking if you’re dead.

\---

You wake up again in a dreamlike state. You don’t expect to see her there, but there she is. She’s sitting on the chair nearest the bed you rest on, a bottle of balm near her. You feel searing pain in your arm and on your feet, as well as a deep sense of exhaustion.

You hold her hand to make sure she’s real, and smile.

“Thought you were gone,” you say far too casually.

She smiles sadly.

“How long has it been?”

“Not long.”

You close your eyes. “That’s far too relative.” She chuckles, and you add “Do you mean ‘a few weeks’ not long, or ‘a few years’ not long?”

She shakes her head. “Only really between the fire and you first getting here.”

You’re content with that answer for a few moments. A few. Then, with a gleam in your eye: “No, silly. Between you leaving and today. I’m afraid I lost track of time.”

She closes her eyes, trying to hide her embarrassment. “I would like to say ‘too long’ but I know that will clarify nothing.” She thinks visibly. “Probably just a few weeks.”

“Oh.” You smile, trying to prop yourself up. “That does sound about right.” You close your eyes. “That’s good.”

Then you lean back down and sleep again.

\---

Fire is all you see before you wake up, breathless. She runs across the room and holds your hand out of concern. She doesn’t know exactly why you reacted this viscerally or what to do, but you hold the bracelet to your chest and let your breath settle from panicked to peaceful.

“Falchion,” you gasp. “Where is Falchion?” You start coughing so hard you shake on the bed as though possessed.

She raises her free hand, watching you with concern. “Falchion is safe,” she insists. “I promise this.”

You manage to cough out “Where is it?”

She places said hand on your chest. “Peace. It is under the bed here. Do you wish for me to show you?”

Part of you does, but you imagine the blood hasn't been cleaned off the blade, so you shake your head. She nods and hands you the salve. You clumsily grab some with your good arm and place it on your chest, under your gown. The coughing eventually subsides, and you take deep breaths once more.

“Bad dream,” you choke, now realizing how burnt dry your throat is.

She nods and lets you adjust, still surprised and alert. You thank her, and she traces a circle onto your hand.

“I have nightmares too sometimes,” she admits. You look at her knowingly, not at all surprised. “About fire. Usually.”

You hmm sadly, reminded of the brutal end of the warren. You want to apologize at the idea of someone facing the same sort of reaction to trauma as you have, especially one so regal and ethereal, because all you want to do is beg forgiveness for every slight against her.

But you can’t. She wouldn’t let you.

You’re tearing up again, but blink them aside. A thought occurs, and you roll with it to avoid getting emotional. “But you’re always the one to stoke the fire.”

She hmms, her way of saying nothing while meaning everything. “You're right. I suppose I wanted to be in control.”

You smile because you're about to break. So much for not getting emotional.

“I don't know why you decided to return to me,” you say, sobs strangling the words in your raw throat, “but I'm so glad you did.”

She closes her eyes, holding her hand to her face as if she committed a sin that you inexplicably forgave her for. Like she can't believe it, and all she can do is thank you.

But you can't figure out what mistake she made.

She was gone, and now she is here.

\---

You try and make out where you are by looking around you and out the window. There's simply a bed that you are in, a chair Panne is still sitting in, a wardrobe, a lantern, and an adjacent room you deduce is the washroom. More than likely, you're temporarily residing in an inn before you face the fire damage. Out of the window, you can vaguely see the same cobblestone path and fountain familiar to you from the same town you neighbor and visit.

“Home.”

Your childlike utterance alerts Panne, who was thinly sleeping in the chair. She looks at you, surprised. You motion for her to stand down with your hand. Your arm stings from the action, causing you to seethe, though you notice that it has gotten better than before the fire. Impressively, she stays seated, when you imagine many in her place would worry and baby you.

Then you remember.

“Home?”

So strange to say, but it's true. It's your home. Then you frown, because it very possibly _was_ your home, rather than _is._

She looks down. “Your house is…” You wait eight terrified seconds for her to find the right word. She settles on “Damaged.”

“Damaged,” you repeat. “Just damaged.”

She nods. “It will take work to repair. Work, and finances, but it's easily possible.”

You sigh, incensed. You force a smile to sate her, but the less authentic it feels, the more you let it slip from your face, because you’ve lost something you did on your own before anyone knew that you still could.

“I spent so much time making it better…” you admit tearfully. It’s all you can say, and you’re worrisomely sad, because though the damage might be slight, it’s still a violation not just on your house but your psyche.  

She closes her eyes and places her head in her hands. You look at her, worried she has a headache or there are noisy kids outside, until she moves closer to you, carrying her seat and plopping it down.

“Lady Panne,” you breathe.

She smirks. “You've seen me nude. You can dispense with the ‘Lady’.”

You blush. To be fair, you blacked out through its entirety, which in retrospect gives her unfair leverage on you since you've no doubt you were nude as well.

She clears her throat. “I don't know if you expected to see me again. If you wanted to.”

“I absolutely wanted to,” you insist. Sounding too much like Severa, you ask “are you daft?”

Panne smirks. The rope was slack, and you yanked it. “I'm trying to be heartfelt, you fool,” she responds, pulling at a loose strand of your blue hair. She turns her head, impressed at its improved upkeep.

“We can admire each other later,” you smirk. “You were being heartfelt?”

She blushes furiously, and you giggle, accomplished. _Red suits her very well._

It becomes silent, and you can tell she’s trying to find the right words. She seems to stop, then furrows her brow, but you never see her think again of something else.

“You know about Yarne, obviously.”

You hear his name and breathe sharply.

“You took care of him,” she says. “I thank you for that. And I think because of that you know what he means to me.”

You choke up and start crying at her compliment, because she’s wrong. “I didn’t,” you say. “I couldn’t protect him, and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Panne.”  

She turns her head sharply, and you can see in her eyes… not pity, lest your teary eyes deceive you. It’s warmer. It’s knowing. It’s the look of someone who shares the same pain you do. It’s the same look you realize she always had.

_Empathy._

She strokes your hair only once, holding the indigo strands in her hand. “You did well,” she says. “You gave more effort than anyone in the Shepherds ever did save myself.” She turns away, as if hit. “His passing was never the fault of someone who gave him more than anyone ever did.”

You choke down further tears and try to compose yourself, but your emotions are too high. “It was never my intention,” you choke between sobs, “to do this to you. To _hurt_ you as well.”

She strokes your hair again. “Then do not blame yourself,” she says with the sort of firmness that holds back emotion of her own. “I was the only one who gave him more of myself than you did. If you think you have failed, I have failed doubly.” She clears her throat as you process her words, looking every bit as daft as you accused her of being. “And I would like to believe with no doubt that I did not fail my child.”

You take her hand, because you know she didn’t, but you cannot reverse the guilt you feel in a day. All you can promise her is “Then I will protect you.”

“Are you ready for that sort of commitment?” she asks quietly, almost a whisper as she leans towards you. She wants to say more, but doesn’t, as if in awe. 

You know what the implications of that are, and the idea of failure again scares you, but you nod, because it’s a purpose, and you need it.  She places a hand at the back of your neck. You shiver. “Then I will protect you as well, my lady.”

Damn her, did she not know you were already close to tears? “Panne…” You choke back a sob, but you are incredibly happy.

She kisses you with comfort, and every turn of her head lets you know that she will stay. Your kisses are reverent of her own.

You believe that you are deserving of them.


	12. The Rest of Your Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina is home.

The best way to describe where you are now is that you are well practiced.

You have little energy to do anything. Your feet have blisters on them. You get exhausted easily and have no appetite or desire to do anything.

And you know it’s wrong.

This isn’t what you wanted.

You absolutely did not want Panne to carry you home after you suffered the pain of walking as you carry Falchion in your hand (perfectly free of blood; she thought of everything). You aren't her child, and should focus on more than making sure you do not inadvertently stab her. But you think of walking again and shudder.

“Something the matter?”

You shake your head. “I'm just thankful I am not more burned.”

She chuckles. “I saw the smoke,” she explains. “I changed into Taguel form to run over and alert you. I absolutely did not expect you to run  _into_ it.”

There are a few questions- how did she see the smoke? Where was she? Why did she know it was your house? Why is it not burnt down completely when all you did was spill the bath? But the both of you have stories to tell, and you know that eventually you'll get to them.

You just feel apologetic for scaring her, another loved one she saw engulfed in flames. But you don’t need to say it. She knows. She trusts you.

You reach home, and notice that part of it is gray from fire damage. You close your eyes, free hand clawing at Panne’s arm.

“If you don't mind,” you say, groaning. “I believe I can walk in.”

She hmphs. Variety, you suppose. “If you insist.” You trust her when she said that the healers did all they could, but that some wounds have to be healed over time. That’s been your experience.

She sets you down, and  _oh Gods_   _it hurts to walk,_ but you manage. You hold her hand and seethe with every step as you walk through the front door.

“Are you sure you can-”

You've readied a retort but lose it when you walk in.

It's still standing, thank the Gods, but there's a massive hole consuming the living room floor that exposes the ground beneath the cabin, and a small one in the ceiling. The furnace is melted, there are bits of the bathtub strewn on the dirt, the whole area is still damp, and the chair has been torn beyond use. Somehow, the couch avoided taking damage, Gods only know how.

You fall to a knee, trying to withhold your panic. Panne kneels next to you, and you grab her arm, taking deep breaths to calm your anger. You keep thinking of the bandit, the kicking, being too stunned to notice the smoke, but you tell yourself over and over “this is not your fault, this is not your fault, this is not your fault”, and this time you are aware someone hears you, and that's okay.

You lean against Falchion like a cane as it digs into the exposed dirt, and you feel like a soldier again, in ruins that terrify and torture you. You swear that if you look up you will see Grima, but you take a few deep breaths and repeat that it's not your fault so you end up home and not in the future past.

“You aren’t the reason this place burned as much as it did,” she tells you. “You’re the reason it wasn’t burned to the ground.”

She kisses the side of your head. You let her with a shaky smile.  _You are not the reason bad things happen,_ you assure yourself shakily.  _You’re the reason they don’t get worse._ You look up through the hole in the roof. Grima is no longer there, but your mother is. Perhaps you have honored her. Perhaps you truly are a savior.

Panne looks around her and back at the kitchen, which is surprisingly undamaged. She muses “I admit… the place is different than I left it.”

“Is this the time for jokes?” you ask darkly.

She shakes her head. “You misunderstand. I admire it.” She rests her hand on a vase nearby, lilac purple fading into yellow haze. “It feels personal.”

You settle down, hand still on Falchion. “I suppose,” you respond, but you're weakly smiling.

She lets you go. “I imagine tea would have some healing properties for man-spawn such as yourself.” You giggle as you watch her turn around, short tail swishing with her.

You stand up, walking across the dirt to your room. You lean on Falchion and feel the dirt between your toes as you reach the floor of your room. You place Falchion in its holder and collapse on the bed.

In the distance, you see Panne’s form in front of the tea kettle, tunic hanging so loosely from her chest she may burn it off. You smirk as you realize that you may not mind that as much as you would insist.

Just so long as that's all that gets burnt.

You nearly fall asleep before the kettle whistles. Perking your head up, you notice Panne pour a cup for one, abandoning the nicety of drinking the tea you know she doesn't like. You beam as you see her set it on the arm of the couch.

She meets your eye. “Let it cool down first.” With that, she sits on the couch, patting the cushion where you will be.

You smile and lean up onto blistered feet. You walk through the broken, dirt filled hallway, past the melted furnace, the kindled chair, and the chunks of the bathtub, and into the rest of your days.


End file.
